


The North Wind

by Argyle



Category: The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-27
Updated: 2005-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good things in the chill night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The North Wind

It seemed that all the world had begun to retreat into the earth. The moorhens quieted their cackling, the trees drew back their bare boughs, and the swift ties of the River were capped by rime and foam. The Water Rat and the Mole felt drowsy and deep-rooted after their late winter dinner with the Otter, and it was all they could do to sit for a while by the fire when he had gone.

“Do go on,” said the Mole, who lay sprawled on the hearthrug by the Rat’s feet. He watched the spit and dance of the flames, falling into a familiar reverie, and stirred only when he felt the Rat’s paw atop his shoulder. It was with great effort that he followed along with his friend’s tale, but now he felt that such things must continue always. He was certain that the Rat was most eager to oblige, though his head had begun to droop sleepily towards his chest some minutes before.

When the Mole spoke again, his voice was lazy and soft. “Ratty?”

“I think we ought to be going to bed.” The good-natured Rat stifled a yawn and blinked once, twice, and widened his eyes with a focused surge of determination. “It is past midnight.”

“O, but I should rather like to hear the rest of your story. What did the Magpie do with the watch he had stolen?”

“What all creatures of that sort are wont to do when they are of their usual mind: he kept it for himself until he grew weary of its chatter. The Magpie, you see, does not believe in time unless it suits him. He calls himself an animal of the world, arriving when he precisely means to, but never before or after.”

“He does not sound very amiable.”

“No, indeed,” the Rat agreed, and dropped the woolen rug from his knees as he stood. He yawned again. “I hope you sleep well, my dear fellow.”

“I’m sure I shall,” the Mole replied, pushing himself up with his elbows. “Goodnight.”

They embraced, their noses touching briefly, before the Rat scuttled down the dark hall.

The Mole remained by the fireplace until the light vanished from beneath the Rat’s door, and then he withdrew into his own room, spreading quilts and blankets over the mattress and shivering with the chill. He blew out his candle, and the clock struck one as he slid into bed. The river flowed on outside his window.

He thought of the stolen watch, the Magpie, and the time. He also thought of the Rat.

An hour or more went by, but still the Mole could not sleep.

He turned this way and that, felt the press of his pillow against his cheek and studied the defects in the ceiling. The panels which ran round the edges were painted in chevrons of blue and gold, but the damp had penetrated into one corner, and the wooden laths had become slightly warped and separated from the plaster.

The scent of raw earth hung in the air. It was not the same sweet haze which had marked his old home, but a darker, dreamier odor, catching at his nose and all the while hinting at the ancient riddles of the riverbank.

What the room must have looked like when it was new! The Mole smiled in a shy, fleeting sort of way, and was grateful that the Rat had been so kind as to give it to him; he resolved anew to help him in putting it right. They would begin when the air was less biting, when the River was welcoming to boats and late-afternoon swimming lessons, when the ground was dappled with young shoots.

Feeling suddenly bright, he began to hum a jingle for a new brand of figgy oat cakes he had heard on Toad’s wireless the week before. It was light and jolly and quick to embed itself in the mind, but when he had bought a package of them at the shops the following weekend, they had been quite dry. Perhaps, he reflected presently, one might enjoy them more if one ate them as one does bowls of bread and milk.

His stomach rumbled and he turned on his side.

For a moment, he thought he might count the days and weeks until Midsummer, but after all there were too many days, too many weeks, and he now could scarcely remember how long ago it had been since the winter began.

The Mole sighed heavily.

It was no good.

He pushed back his bedclothes, crossed to the chest of drawers which stood beneath the dark window, and lit a candle with a match from his pocket. From the top drawer he pulled a little leather-bound volume; it was the book of poems the Rat had given it to him on the last day of August, and he had not yet read them. Indeed, he was not certain that he would read them now, for he was not at all a poetic animal, but he found the sight of the Rat’s neat hand to be a comfort in the flickering light.

After a while, though, the chill of being out of bed grew too great, and so he tightened the tie of his dressing-gown and crept back into the den. The fire had not yet died; he knew he could have it back to its former self in no time, and so it was.

The Mole settled into the chair, pulling a rug about his legs. The book lay open in his lap, and his eyes grazed over the words; the fire began to crackle. Then there came the sound of footsteps in the hall.

“Well, well. What’s this?” the Rat asked. His arms were folded across his chest, and he lingered on the threshold for a moment, blearily looking about as though uncertain of how best to proceed. “Out of bed at this time of night?”

The Mole nodded and tucked the book into his pocket. “I could not sleep.”

“Nor could I,” admitted the Rat gravely. He stood before the fire and warmed his paws before lighting his pipe. “You saved it, I see. We will have to fetch more wood in the morrow.”

“I expect so.”

“Shall I put the kettle on?” asked the Rat, suddenly remembering himself. And then: “Is everything all right, Moly?”

The Mole nodded again. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “I was merely thinking.”

“Thinking?” the Rat repeated musingly, and took a seat on the chair arm beside him. “Were you really?”

“Yes,” said the Mole. “I think there is not one good thing about winter, and that it will never end, not ever.” He huddled into his dressing-gown and stared out the little window to where the moonlit current pushed beyond the embankment. Tapering strands of mist hung about the hollows where land met water, the eager wind stirred the ropes across the dock, and the reeds were laced with frost. The undergrowth was wet. The land looked very cold.

“O, no,” the Rat protested, and shook his head in such a way that the long stocking of his nightcap swished and swirled about him, “that isn’t true. There are a great many things about winter which an animal might well take heart of.”

“What do you mean?”

A moment passed before the Rat said kindly, “Well, there are sleds.”

The Mole did not answer. He had never been on a sled before, but his friend could not have known that; he could only suppose that he was correct.

“And there are evergreen boughs and hot totties and Christmas biscuits from the shops.”

“Yes.”

“And,” continued the Rat, “there is the North Wind.”

The Mole frowned. “What could be good about the North Wind?”

“He holds a secret. He knows what is good about winter,” the Rat said in a stilled listening voice. “It is more than good: it is great.” Here he seemed to grow thoughtful, his eyes focusing on the middle distance, somewhere well away from the Mole and the River and their home in the hill. He drew his pipe from his mouth, glanced at it with some surprise, and then puffed upon it once more.

“And what is the secret?” the Mole asked.

“You must listen very carefully, and he will tell you himself.”

But the Mole already knew the North Wind’s secret. He did not remember whether he had heard the tale before, or whether it was something which pooled in the pulse of every animal as an instinctual fact of life, but he knew it just the same.

He knew that they only need wait, and the spring would come.


End file.
